Blood Simple
by Greekhoop
Summary: She's never seen this place, he thinks. She's never been here, and that's the way it ought to be. Vamp/Fortune.


**Blood Simple**

She shows up at his door in the middle of the night. Soaked to the skin by the rain, in a long coat with her blond hair in loose wet ropes around her shoulders, she's like a real femme fatale, backlit by the flickering fluorescent bulb in the hallway.

He stares at her for a moment; confused and slow to comprehend, as if he has just shaken him from a deep sleep. But that's not what happened at all. In fact, he hardly ever sleeps anymore.

"Can I come in?" she asks. There are dark rings around her eyes, from exhaustion or crying, or maybe just putting in her contacts too quickly.

He pushes his black hair out of his eyes and he nods, stepping aside. Along his jaw line, tapering out from the neat facial hair he usually wears, is a faint shadow of stubble.

"Is something wrong?"

She's never seen this place, he thinks. She's never been here, and that's the way it ought to be. They ought to be clipped and formal with each other. They ought to be so stunningly, icily tolerant that everyone who knows them notices it. Never impolite, of course, but never quite friendly either.

They ought to have an understanding, but they can't maintain it anymore. Because he doesn't understand…

"Just a bad dream," she says. Her voice is raw. She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Stupid…"

"You could have called." He takes her coat, just like a real gentleman.

"I couldn't find my phone. I can't stop losing things these days." He throws her coat over the back of a chair to dry.

"Wait," she says. "Wait, I'll just go. I don't know what I'm doing here."

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't have walked. It's not safe at night."

"It's okay. I'm just parked down the street. It's not far at all."

Her gray teeshirt is the kind you wear to bed when you're planning on sleeping alone. It's damp from the rain, and it clings to her, mapping the outlines of her breasts.

And she's not so upset that she can't tell where he's looking.

"Adrian!"

"You look cold."

"Fuck off." She crosses her arms over her chest, angry and embarrassed in just such way that he has to laugh a little.

"I'll make some coffee and walk you back to your car."

She looks away, hugging herself tighter. "Fine. Milk and sugar, if you've got it."

He watches her through the kitchen door as he measures out the coffee, there amongst the art replicas and Catholic iconography on his walls. She sits on one of his black leather sofas. When he comes back a minute later, she's calmed down some. He hands her a steaming cup, and she smiles weakly as she looks up at him. "Thanks."

"It's nothing. We have to look out for each other now, don't we?"

"Maybe." She takes a sip. "But you really mean that I'm the one who needs to be looked after, don't you?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Look at you. You're strong enough. You'll be all right."

He sits on the arm of the sofa beside her. "So will you. I think you're stronger than you're prepared to admit."

She shakes her head, staring down into her coffee. "But there was nothing I could do. There's nothing I can do…"

"There was nothing anyone could do."

She sniffs quietly, and though her hair falls in front of her face, he knows she's crying again because a tear drips onto the inside of her wrist. She turns her hand quickly to hide it. "Has anyone ever told you that you're not very good at this?"

"Yes, they have."

"I'm not surprised."

"I'm sorry." Her hands are trembling, and he reaches down to take the cup from her.

"I can't go home," she says. "The house is too empty. I think it's haunted. I keep hearing noises that I never noticed before…"

"Then you can stay here until morning if you want. Take the bedroom. I'll sleep on the sofa."

"Adrian." She takes his hand, her grip cold and steely. He looks at her; she's already pushed to her knees and turned to face him. When he opens his mouth to respond, she hooks her other hand around the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

It takes him a moment to realize what's happened, but when he does he reaches up to push her back gently. "This is a mistake."

"I don't care."

She jerks him forward again. He slides off the arm of the sofa, presses up against her. Her clothes are wet and she's shivering, so he puts his arms around her. The next time he hesitates, she shoves him back. "So I'm strong enough to watch the people I care about die, but not strong enough for this. Is that it?"

"It's not like that…"

Then she slaps him. "Don't patronize me."

He stares at her for a moment, surprised. His cheek stings, and he can feel blood rush to the spot where she hit him. There's a grim, determined set to her mouth. Her eyes flash, and then they both move at once. His arms tighten around her waist; her fingers tangle in his long black hair. They kiss, hard and desperate. Her lips part, and he runs his tongue over the contours of her mouth. She's never smoked in her life; she tastes only faintly of the sweet milky coffee she just drank.

"Your hands are cold," she murmurs. When he presses her onto her back, she doesn't resist him. When he crawls over her, she reaches up to wrap her arms around him.

He kisses her again, her mouth first, then her throat, the sensitive spot where neck bends into shoulder. She's very beautiful, but he can't remember if this is the first time he's noticed it. He's never thought of her like this, never wondered what it would be like to fuck her. It's a shame, he thinks, that he had no expectations; she would most certainly be exceeding them all.

She arches her back, pushing herself up and against him. When he slips his thigh up between hers, she grinds her hips against him. His hands may be cold, but it only makes her feel warm by comparison. Underneath the cool glove of her wet clothes, he can feel tributaries of hot blood, drawing him upward, toward her heart.

"We'll be fine," she says. "We just won't stop to think about it."

He slides his hands over her ribs, dragging her shirt up past her breasts. He cups one in his hand and he can feel her pulse race beneath his fingers.

"And when we do stop?" he says as he bends over her, sliding his tongue over a nipple.

"Then…" She gasps, twisting beneath him. "Then it'll be too late, won't it?"

"Yes," he says. His voice is just a whisper, a breath of cool air over the skin he's just dampened. "It will be."

She sighs, setting a hand against his chest, pushing him back as she sits up.

"Look," she says, hooking her hands under her shirt, stripping it off over her head. "Don't act like this makes you the Holy Martyred Saint of One Night Stands or something." She tosses her shirt aside and it hits the wall with a wet slap before falling to the floor. She reaches for him, setting a hand on his chest. "That's not very flattering."

"I understand," he says. He sets his hand over hers, notices that her nails are ragged from being bitten. "Do you want to go in the bedroom?"

"The bedroom sounds good." She lowers her eyes as she stands up, and crosses one arm over her breasts. She lets him lead the way to the door in the back of the apartment.

His room is not small, but the bed is too large for it, making it feel cramped. She stares at it for a time, that stately bed with a towering headboard, black silk sheets, piled with pillows. She stares like it's a relic from a different age, and it's only then that he begins to realize that is exactly what it is.

He hears her breath hitch in her chest, and he thinks that if she starts crying now, she might not stop for a long time. That's not what he wants. He hates hysterical women. He hates the sounds they make when they've been hurt. It reminds him of the nightmares he used to have about the rich red tears his mother wept, right before she died.

He doesn't remember his mother's face anymore. He only remembers those bloody tears.

But his mother has been dead for almost two decades now, and the woman who is with him is nothing like her. His mother used to cry a lot; he never knew why. This woman saves her tears for when she is alone.

They both do, and these days he is finding that he likes that best about her. The things they don't say console him more than the things they do.

He comes close to her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. She leans back against him, and her head fits neatly beneath his chin.

"Adrian…" she murmurs.

"Quiet," he tells her, and she seems to understand.

She turns in his arms, pressing a kiss to his mouth. She's trembling, but where she touches him her hands are steady. Then she steps back, sitting on the edge of the bed. She runs her hand over the sheets, a soft clean sound.

"Come on," she says. Her lips tilt up into a wrenching smile. "I won't break, Adrian."

And in the end, he does what she wants. He doesn't have anything else to give her. Just coffee and warmth and a place to sleep where no one will think to look for her. He doesn't have a way to make her forget, because she's never been here, but everything about this room is still familiar to her.

He unbuttons his shirt slowly. He's glad they haven't turned on the light, because he knows how beautiful he is. But he also knows that isn't what she's searching for in him. What he looks like is, to her, only incidental.

As he slips his shirt off, she reaches out to run her hand over his stomach, tracing the cords of lean muscle. "Pretty…" she murmurs.

He smiles a little. Perhaps not entirely incidental after all. He doesn't mind; he is used to being admired. Gently, he takes her hand between his, drawing it to his lips for a kiss. She pulls away, annoyed, and reaches for the front of his pants instead.

She strokes her fingers over him through the stiff fabric of his jeans. He draws a sharp breath; his cock is already straining uncomfortably against the denim when she slides his zipper down.

He doesn't try to touch her at her as she reaches into his jeans – these battered old jeans he's had since forever, these jeans that were already old before he ever met her. She wraps a hand around him, tugging him out. His hands twitch at his sides, but he still doesn't reach for her. He's thinking about how he prays every night for God to let him sleep, and about how he prays to God for her, too.

God only knows what she is thinking.

She brushes her lips over him, and a shiver runs the length of his spine. It's then that he realizes what he should have known all along: whatever her reasons for coming here tonight, she takes them very seriously. And so he should, too.

He sets a hand on the back of her neck and he says, "Go on."

Her back arches up against his hand. She licks her lips, her mouth close enough to him that he can feel the moist heat of her breath on his bare skin. Her tongue flicks out, lapping up the little bead of fluid at the head of his cock, and then her lips part and slide over him.

His breath catches in his throat. He pushes against her, but slowly; he knows she's at an awkward angle. She cups his hips in her hands, easing him forward. When she breathes a soft sigh, low in her throat, he can feel the vibrations all the way to the pit of his stomach. She's methodical and precise with him; she makes a systematic experiment of finding what he likes. Darting away, then returning a moment later, fluttering over him delicately. She makes him think of moths, and flames.

He takes her chin is his hand, tilting it back. The air stings his damp skin, and he shuddered. She must feel it, just like he can feel her heartbeat rising and racing at her throat. Her expression is calm, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Even her breathing is even; her uncovered breasts lifting and falling steadily and slow. If it weren't for that ragged pulse beneath his fingers, the desperate pounding of her heart, pushing up against him, he would never know that there is a war being fought, just under her skin.

She looks up at him, and he moves to kiss her quickly, before she can say anything. Some things could do not need to be said; even trying would only be painful for both of them.

When he pushes her onto her back, the sheets must be cold because she arches her body, her breath hissing softly between her teeth. "Adrian…"

He kisses her once on the lips, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tracing the shape of it. His hand flicks open the buttons at the front of her pants, and she presses against him, making it easier to slide them off. She pulls him down, half on top of her, her breasts crushed against his chest. His hand slips between her legs, fingertips nudging beneath her underwear to brush against her. She makes a little noise deep in her throat, pleased and pleading.

She's slick and hot, flushed with blood. His fingers slip into her easily. She gasps, jerks up against his hand, forcing him in deeper. He flicks his thumb over her clit; his hands are rough and calloused, hard as talons.

She pulls him to her lips and tries to kiss him, but the sharp little breaths she's taking keep getting in the way. He moves his mouth to her throat instead, kissing her neck and the bend of her shoulder, catching her earlobe between his teeth. She twists under him, arching her hips up to meet his hand, moaning into his hair. Her breath is a hot smear against his temple.

It's comforting, he thinks, not to worry about himself right now. He's hard as hell, his erection pinned uncomfortably against the mattress, but he doesn't want to think about what he wants, what he needs. In the end, if this is enough for her, then, plus or minus a cold shower, it will be enough for him, too.

He flicks his tongue over the tip of her breast, drawing her nipple to his mouth, catching it between his teeth. She cries out softly, and her hands tighten on his shoulders. But if she wanted to push him away, she's already forgotten. Her hands slide down to his hips, instead.

"Adrian?" Her fingers curl around his cock. "You should…"

He pauses, drawing his fingers slowly out of her, making her shiver.

"If that's what you want," he says. He crawls over her, opening the small drawer next to the bed.

"It is. I don't want to feel like it's just…"

"What is it?" he says.

He kneels back, a condom in one hand. He feels as though things have cooled between them, like a cold mist has rolled in to take the place of the heat from their bodies. But then she reaches out, sliding the back of her hand over his cock. It pulls at him, like there's a wire running through his body, connected to some place deep within.

She looks up at him, and the light throws long shadows across her face, making her look shy and inviting. "You're probably really cranky when you're horny."

She reaches up to pluck the condom out of his hand, then tears it open with her teeth and slides it over him, squeezing him hard as she rolls it down.

He slides her underwear off, tilting his head down so his hair hides the little smile on his lips. As he settles between her thighs, she wraps her legs around him. The head of his cock nudges up against her, and she draws him forward with her legs.

She smiles, and he feels relieved.

"I've never done this with anyone like you," she says.

He wants to know what that means, but he's afraid asking will ruin it. He pushes forward, and she cries out, her hands clutching at his biceps. Her legs flex around him, pulling him in deeper. He lets her set their pace, steady and slow.

He sets one hand low on her belly, dipping his thumb down to tease her clit. It makes her writhe beneath him, and her hips lift off the mattress to meet his thrusts. He pulls out so that only the head of his cock is still inside, then plunges back in, letting her feel every inch.

Her breathing turns to sobs and moans as she gets close. She tries to turn her face against his shoulder to muffle them, but he pulls away. He wants to hear what sounds she makes when she comes.

"Adrian…" she gasps, but she doesn't get a chance to finish. She closes her eyes, and her legs tighten around his waist. She cries out; there's a little upswing to her voice, as if she's surprised.

He pushes into her a few more times, feeling the pulse of internal muscles all around him; she, shuddering beneath him with each thrust. His fingers tangle in the sheets as he comes. It leaves him feeling weaker than any other time he can remember. But he can't remember much right now.

His arms give out and his head drops to her shoulder. His breathing is ragged, feverish.

She murmurs something against his hair that he can't understand, but doesn't think he's meant to. They're still a while, silent, shivering occasionally as the cool air licks the sweat from their bodies. He hasn't pulled out of her yet, but after a few moments, she takes his shoulders, easing him back. "Can you get us a blanket?"

He pulls back and slides the condom off, wraps it up and throws it away. She curls up on her side, hugging herself against the cold. He unfolds the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulls it over her. Clutching the blanket to her breasts, she turns so she's looking up at him.

"Come down here." She takes his hand, giving it a tug.

He slips into bed, and she presses up against him. He hasn't changed his mind; he still knows that this is a mistake. But he can learn to live with that.

He's beginning to realize that he can learn to live with many things.


End file.
